


The Quiet Ones

by Hello_Spikey



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2019-10-26 15:25:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17748443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hello_Spikey/pseuds/Hello_Spikey
Summary: Spike runs into Tara in a place she oughtn't be, and decides to walk her home.





	The Quiet Ones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lesbianbutch04](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lesbianbutch04).



> I always get a little shy the first time I write a particular pairing.
> 
> This is for lesbianbutch04, who asked for Spike/Tara.

After his considerable experience, Spike knew it was the quiet ones you had to watch out for. The loud, snarky, irritating ones – you could see them coming from a mile away. And Spike did have a habit of following the bright and the shiny, leaving himself open to the silent type who, say, show up at the last minute in a van with a crossbow. Just for an example.

So at Buffy’s birthday party, when Tara gave him a sudden, knowing smirk, he could have kicked himself for letting her slip in under the radar. That glance said she knew, not just something, but that she knew SPIKE, enough to be amused at him, and not, no not even a tiny bit scared.

Spike was really getting worried about this habit people had of not being afraid of him anymore.

Soon enough he was distracted by the inevitable monster-attack and mojo-going-wrong that characterized gatherings at the Summers’ household, and he forgot about the worrisome smile, until he was leaving, and Tara touched his elbow just for a moment in farewell, her face, again, showing clearly that she knew something.

And then, shortly after that, Buffy had given him the heave-ho and done it so gently, her eyes glistening with tears, calling him by his first name, that he couldn’t even be properly mad at her for it. He knew it was his fault, but bollocks if he understood what he’d done wrong. Sure, there was something about those demon eggs – but it wasn’t like anyone they knew would have gotten hurt by them. Mostly he felt like he’d failed a test, without knowing he was taking one.

His crypt was blown up, and he had no desire to fix and clean, but he did want to do something – anything. What had he filled his hours with before Buffy? His life had been structured – re-structured – around arranging as many clandestine meetings as possible, learning her work schedule, Dawn’s schedule, the witches class schedules and when Buffy would slay and when she ought to sleep. Pushing his own projects and needs into an ever-narrowing slice of the day to keep himself available. It had been exhausting and annoying and bliss.

He had things to do and no reason to waste his time stalking Buffy. Which was of course why he found himself circling her house as soon as it was dark.

He was still trying to come up with the excuse he’d use when he ran into Tara.

She was hanging around under the slight cover of the front-yard tree, worrying her shirt-hem. They startled each other as he came around the side of the house.

They both looked away and then back at each other, a silent interplay that clearly spelled out what they were both doing there. Spike scowled. “You’re not pining after that witch, are you? After what she did to you?”

Tara’s embarrassment faded into a wry eyebrow-raise. “And you’re just checking the windows for leaks?”

Spike winced. “Christ. It always is the quiet ones you have to look out for.”

She ducked her head, blushing. “I like how that sounds.”

Spike smiled, feeling a little warm. He quickly turned away and tried to get the subject back on firmer ground. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re thinking of becoming the statistic – the returning battered woman. It’s disgusting, is what it is. In fact, if I were programming this chip, I’d have made it so abusive husbands were fair game.” He tapped his temple and almost smiled again, thinking of the possibilities. Really, one little exception? Murderers, rapists – they could be his slayer-approved smorgasbord. He’d look like a hero just for eating whoever he could. Spike rocked on his heels, a dreamy expression coming over his face.

Tara cleared her throat and leaned into Spike’s field of vision. “First off, I’m not battered.”

“As they all say.”

Tara’s jaw tightened. “And secondly, Willow is… she just…” Tara looked up at the house, a little lost. “She m-made a mistake.”

“Oh pet,” Spike rubbed a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb, turning her back to face him. “You can do so much better than a chit who didn’t respect your mind.”

Tara flinched away from him. “Th-that’s a bit personal.”

“Go on, hide behind your shiny curtain of hair.” Spike rolled his head back and blinked up at the sky, starless with light pollution. When he glanced back at Tara she was ruefully looking away from him, her arms tightly crossed and tears catching the streetlight on her cheeks. “You’re lovely, you know that? Bloody gorgeous and strong, too. And… I dunno. There’s something wise about you. Don’t sell yourself short. I’d try to steal you away,” Spike offered, “if I had the right equipment.”

She gave him an odd look. “L-like rope and handcuffs?”

Spike laughed. “The quiet ones. That’s what I just said.” He shook his head and rummaged in his pockets for his smokes. “No, love,” he said, smiling around a loosely dangling cigarette. “I was thinking more in the line of tits.” He gestured in front of his decidedly masculine chest.

Tara blushed again, fetchingly, and nodded at her feet, too embarrassed to even answer.

Spike lit his cigarette and leaned one arm on the tree over her head. “Not that you strike me as a tits girl, what with the firm but modest set on Red.”

Her cheeks got so bright he thought he could smell the blood through them. “You’re terrible,” she whispered, not entirely angrily, and dashed off down the street.

Spike caught up leisurely. “Going back to the dormitory?”

She walked with her arms wrapped around herself, shoulders hunched, a posture that screamed ‘easy victim’. Spike wondered if he should tell her that. After several steps she glanced back at him, through her hair, and seeing him still behind her said, “Don’t you have anything else to do?”

“Surprisingly, no. Think making sure one of Buffy’s little do-good brigade gets to bed in one piece is currently my top priority. Though you’re out of luck if we pass a really good brawl.” He surveyed the quiet suburban street in hope.

She didn’t turn around as she said, “I can take care of myself.”

“Can see that,” Spike said quietly, and a little sadly. He paused to flick ash in the street and had to jog a step to catch up to her. “Look don’t…” he groaned at the sheer ponciness of what he was about to say. “Don’t pay any attention to me getting all into your business. I’m just bored and lacking in manners. You know your heart a hell of a lot better than I can claim to. If she makes you happy, even if the happiness hurts, love is worth it.”

Tara had stopped at the corner of the main street that went up to the campus of UC Sunnydale. The traffic light was blinking and no cars were coming, but maybe she’d just wanted a place to stop. She looked across at the walk-light, flashing its red hand, and said, “If it hurts, it’s not happiness.”

Spike thought she stepped into the empty street like Ophelia stepping into the water. He shook his head and jogged ahead of her, stepping in front of her just at the opposite curb. She stared at him, a little shocked, a little annoyed, a lot expecting him to say something.

He fumbled for something. “Did I ever tell you I met Gertrude Stein?”

Tara’s fine eyebrows shot up her smooth forehead and then she laughed, a little, quiet laugh. “You aren’t going to tell me you really like Ellen DeGeneres next, are you?”

“No. It’s not – bollocks. I was just thinking about this bird she had, worth twenty of her when it came to love. I tried to get between those thighs for a solid week before Dru told me she was sick of Paris.”

“Alice B. Toklas?”

Spike cocked his head. “She famous, too?”

Tara’s response was amused and just a touch condescending. “For dating Gertrude Stein. And, you know, the thing with the brownies.” 

Spike shook his head. He did not start this conversation just to be out-intellectual-ed by someone a fraction of his age. “Point is, that’s when I learned the hard way that there’s no such thing as ‘she just needs to meet the right man’.” He made air quotes. “So don’t think this is about me trying to get inside that lovely bohemian wrap of yours.”

“You’re just being a friend,” Tara said, smiling up at him.

Spike frowned, a little confused at the idea but it sounded right. “Well, yeah. Know I don’t have a chance with you.”

Tara gave him that knowing look again, startling and unsettlingly smug, as she stepped past him. When she looked back over her shoulder this time, her lower lip was caught in her teeth.

“Wot?”

She shook her head and continued walking down the street. The sidewalk was wider here and curved gently away from the road, toward the cluster of college buildings in their manicured park. Spike slowed, unsure if he should still be following, until she glanced back at him again, a laugh crinkling her eye.

He caught her arm and made her turn toward him. There was a slight panic in her eyes. “What do you know?”

“L-let go.”

“Bugger that. If I was hurting you, the chip would let me know. I’m not letting go until you tell me why you look at me like you know something about me I don’t know myself.”

She relaxed in his grip. “I know about you and Buffy,” she said.

He let go.

“And I also know you do have a chance,” she tilted her head up, smiling. “With me, at least.”

Spike just gaped as she half-shrugged and turned back to her walk. She was past the sign for the “Residential Village” before Spike recovered the ability to move and caught up with her. 

She greeted him with a silent, smug smile.

“You saucy minx,” He said, and tossed his mostly-used-up cigarette at some bushes. “How would you like a drink, then?”

“Are you going to tell me more about Gertrude Stein?”

He rolled his eyes. “I got all soft-headed over experimental poetry. It was a phase. I grew out of it.”

Her shoulder bumped into his. “I bet you were a real beatnik.”

He looked anxiously around for a change of subject and pointed down one of the student paths. “There’s a club down that way. Cut right through to Oak Street.”

Tara shrugged, then nodded. He slipped his arm around hers and was a little surprised that she let him, and that it felt so natural. They turned down the path to the bar. “So tell me, on a scale of one to don’t-kick-me-in-the-balls, how much of a chance do I have?”

“It went up to at least a five when you told me I’m wise.”

“I’ll have to remember that line, then.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “I liked that it wasn’t a ‘line’, you dummy.”

“Can’t always promise to be unrehearsed and insightful,” he said. “But get a few drinks in me and I’ll probably compose sonnets about your hair.”

“If I get you drunk will I get lucky?”

Spike pulled back from her. “Bloody hell!”

She nudged his arm gently again, shaking her head. “Just trying to make sure you keep looking out for the quiet ones.”

“Too right,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders this time and they walked that way right into the door of the bar, and to a booth in the back, where they talked, and drank, until nearly dawn.

THE END


End file.
